


the sun will be rising back home

by apollo



Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: Gen, Niall-centric, Not a lot of dialogue, POV Second Person, Sort of AU, catholic!niall, mentions of the catholic church, pensive!niall, so many liberties, x factor days!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:52:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollo/pseuds/apollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when you're six years old, and join the children's choir at church. </p><p>Immediately, that's when you know what you want to do for the rest of your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun will be rising back home

**Author's Note:**

> so many liberties! - especially with the church niall's in (i'm not catholic - and most churches probably don't have as many choirs). i imagine this taking place after judge's houses, but before week eight on x factor.
> 
> i actually finished writing this before the release of midnight memories (though i didn't know it was complete at the time) but it goes really well with "don't forget where you belong".

You are six when you sing with the Cherub’s Choir at your church. You have a solo. As soon as the words leave your mouth, the lilting melody and your mum’s proud, smiling face, you know you want to sing for the rest of your life.

And you do. When you are ten, you can join the Angel’s Choir. They sing longer, better songs. You can get solos here too, and everyone sounds a bit better.

When you turn eleven, you are eligible for the Holiday Chorus, a first form choir that performs holiday music for Christmas and Easter. You’re the best male voice they have, even if you don’t like to admit it, and you nab all the solos. Not that anyone stood a chance against you. You knew exactly what you wanted to do for the rest of your life.

When you are fourteen, you audition for the Challenge Choir at your school – it’s elite, the best in second form. You make it in, with a rare compliment from the director. “You’ve got one heck of a voice, Mr Horan.”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m not my father.”

 _(My father is football and rough contact sports, my father is good grades over handwritten melodies. I am music and belting choruses, I am shaky hands on a hand-me-down guitar)_ , you think.

You’re fifteen when you can join the Praise Choir at church – you’re singing with older teenagers and young adults now. You keep belting out high notes and traditional Irish melodies.

Your sixteenth birthday comes and goes and you sing a solo at contest; with perfect marks. Your mother gifts you lessons with a renowned vocal coach, and your father gives you Bob Dylan sheet music. Greg doesn’t give you a present, but for all you care the words he said were the best gift you got that year.

“Audition for X Factor, Nialler. You’d make it in.”

You audition. It’s not easy, from step one. You know you’re going to have to fight, that you’re going through this competition alone. You make it through the judge’s houses, and then suddenly you’re not alone anymore.

Suddenly, you’re surrounded by four other boys that have voices as shiny as the stars, and they want to do what you want to do for the rest of their lives, too.

They sing Viva La Vida right next to you, and you beam through it all. And the judges love it. The audience loves it.

And then you get papped, for the first time, and then for the twelfth time, and all of a sudden you need to know, need to hang on, need to tether yourself to your dream, or you’re going to float off like those helium balloons at grocery stores with celebrities’ faces plastered onto them.

(You think it’d be nice if you and the boys made it onto a balloon.)

So you get onto a flight back to Mullingar. You need to remind yourself.

When you get home, you take a taxi straight to the church. It’s a massive structure, with ornate ledges and molded archways. You go around to the side entrance, and tilt your head upward so you can see the singing angels. Those were always your favorite statues; holding open hymnals with faces carved to sing eternally.

You open the door, remembering the day ten years ago when you first came to Cherub Choir. You no longer stand on your tiptoes and struggle to reach the doorknob in sheer excitement every time you came for choir rehearsals, but you still love the room all the same.

Slowly, you walk down the hall to the ever-familiar room. It’s old and wearing a little thin from so many years of use and exuberant kids. You close the door behind you quietly and go to sit where you sat for ten years of chorus; third row, second last seat.

You sit quietly, looking around, but mostly just staring at the chalkboard. That’s where the songs they would be performing appeared every Tuesday and Thursday night, just in time for practice.

You wish you could have come just a day earlier. It’s Friday; there’s no choir practice tonight, but it was nice.

To remind yourself. This is where it all started.

You knew you wanted to sing as soon as you opened your mouth and sang an off-key, high-pitched scale with the other six year olds. You knew then, and you know now.

You stay for a week, visiting your family that you’d seen only months ago. You see your mates, and go to your old schools and thank your choir teachers.

There’s no guarantee that One Direction will even get to the final rounds of X Factor, but you’re sure as hell going to try, and you know that without music in your life, you wouldn’t have a clue on what to do with your life.

Another Friday comes, and you jump back on a flight to take you back to where your dream is waiting to be chased.

**Author's Note:**

> they made it onto balloons.


End file.
